


The Patch

by Junket (orphan_account)



Category: Sons of Anarchy, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Junket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a coke run to the deep South goes bad, SAMCRO finds one Daryl Dixon punked out in the corner of a rival gang's lair. The club takes him in and tries to keep him comfortable while he heals, but unfortunately Daryl's less-than-developed coping mechanisms (and that always-present SAMCRO drama) don't make things easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted [here](http://twd-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/4497.html?thread=6712209#t6712209).

Clay frowned at the corpse bleeding into the motel carpet, lowering his glock. "This will cause problems."  
  
Chibs stepped around the biker's body. "Ya think?" he hissed in his heavy Scottish accent, handgun ready. "Southern Brotherhood won't take kindly to this, we'll have to make sure we tell 'em the story first. I'm checkin' the last room."  
  
Clay nodded at the younger man and held his gun up, the tip of the silencer speckled with blood. He had to work to keep his hands from shaking. Only a few more hours before he needed an injection, something he never looked forward to on the road. Gemma always made things easier.  
  
The door between this motel room and the next was unlocked and cracked open; Chibs readied his hand on the door-knob. At Clay's nod he burst into the room, Clay ducking in afterwards to cover him. It looked like a crime scene. The white sheets on the far twin bed were spotted with blood, covers disheveled, trash everywhere.  
  
"Empty," Clay said as Chibs stalked towards the bathroom. When Chibs passed the far bed the man snapped to attention, lifting the muzzle of his gun into the far corner. Startled, Clay followed suit.  
  
As Clay came closer he saw what had caused the alarm; there a body curled up in the small space between the bed and the wall, naked as fucking day, hands behind his back. He didn't move at their approach, face obscured under a mop of dark hair.  
  
"Jesus," Chibs said, shaking his head. The man's sides were covered in bruises and lacerations, finger-shaped blood stains. "Those sick fucks."  
  
"No kidding. Get him out, will ya," Clay said, gesturing.  
  
"I do that, you check the bathroom."  
  
As Clay stepped away Chibs somewhat nervously moved into the small space, stepping slowly with his gun pointed aside. The man, face buried between his knees, just seemed to pull up tighter.  
  
"Clear," he heard Clay say, and Chibs finally holstered his gun under his vest. "Blood on the tile, beer cans and pizza boxes," Clay said in disgust, stepping back into the room. "These guys live like pigs."  
  
"Hey, laddie...hey..." Chibs crouched down and reached out. The man jerked when Chib's fingers touched his shoulder. "Just letting you out, ok? Ok..." the man didn't make a noise as Chibs' hand trailed down the man's arm, hoping to communicate where he was planning on touching. He finally wrapped his fingers around the ropy layers of duck-tape. He took his knife to it, went to work.  
  
"Looks like they drugged him," Clay observed. "Poor guy must've hid when he heard shooting."  
  
"Maybe," Chibs agreed, the first loop of tape snapping off. He suddenly became hyper-aware of the man's nakedness. "Clay, grab that blanket for me."  
  
A few moments later and Clay had yanked the tan blanket out from under the mattress. Chibs took it and draped it over the man's knees, wedging to keep it from falling off. No reaction, just rigidity as Chibs wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and back as well.  
  
"Hey lad, can you hear me?" Chibs asked, keeping his voice low.  
  
The head turned slightly to look give him a guarded look. Blue eyes...mature blue eyes, weighed him, analyzed him distrustfully. He was clearly hard-put just to keep his eyelids open.  
  
"We're just here to help, brother," Chibs said as reassuringly as possible. The blanket wouldn't stay over his shoulder, but it at least kept him covered from the hips up as Chibs ripped the last of the duck-tape.  
  
"What the hell is this?" Tig asked as he walked in, the lithe man staring at the scene with his usual uneasy energy, scratching at his black goatee.  
  
"Sh sh, keep your voice down," Clay said, putting his hand up. Then Chibs was gently pulling the man's wrist forward. "Tig, find his clothes." Clay headed for the door. "We need Ope for this."

-|-

Chibs stepped from the motel into the brisk evening air, lighting a cigarette to calm his nerves. He watched as Bobby escorted two call girls away from the rooms, the Elvis look-alike clearly exasperated.  
  
There was the rumble of motorcycles, and Jax and Juice came to a stop near the door. Jax set the kick-stand with his white sneakers, sweaty and red-faced from the exhilaration of a fight gone well.  
  
Jax unclicked his helmet, swinging his leg over. "Chibs."  
  
"Jax." Chibs stepped closer. "You find it?"  
  
"Only found half the coke, they bolted with the rest," Jax said, hanging the helmet over the handle. "I'm figuring they're in with the fuzz, that's why the fuckers were so confident."  
  
"Makes sense," Chibs said. "Another good reason for us to clear town fast, get across state lines."  
  
"Nope." Jax ran a hand through tangled dirty blonde hair. "I'm not leaving without the rest of that shipment, Chibs, we can't."  
  
"May not be worth it, Jax, should let the Brotherhood handle it." Jax opened his mouth to speak but Chibs raised a hand. "It's their chapter that went rogue, they should clean up the mess. Look, I'm much more worried about the Irish thinkin' we're compromised. If we can't get Sanchez to sit down and talk this out we're bloody well screwed more ways than - "  
  
"Hey Chibs, get the van pulled up to the door," Tigs called from inside the motel.  
  
"Juice, move the van," Chibs said.  
  
"What the...two bodies?" Jax demanded, and Chibs turned to see Jax peering in the door. Ope was walking their way from inside. The giant of a man had the punk wrapped entirely in the tan blanket and hoisted in his arms, bare feet dangling.  
  
Tig looked anxious as he led the way, Clay behind them with a bundle of clothing under his arm. "Not a body, boss," Tig said.  
  
"Well who is he?" Jax demanded, trying to better see the face obscured on Ope's chest.  
  
"Dunno yet, he hasn't said a word ," Ope said with a grunt, pausing by the door while Juice parked the van. Tig stepped onto the walkway to wave Juice to the right parking spot, Clay following.  
  
"Is he conscious?" Jax asked Ope, fortunately with the sense to keep his voice down.  
  
Ope hefted the body. "Barely, he's pretty drugged up."  
  
Taking a drag on his cigarette, Chibs scanned the mostly-deserted parking lot for activity. Old habit. Thanking their luck that the trashy motel was both near-vacant and isolated, he turned to watch Ope and Jax, saw Jax was leaning in too close.  
  
"Jax, maybe you should give 'em some space," Chibs said as diplomatically as he could, wishing he'd briefed Jax earlier. Jax gave Chibs a look of surprise before looking at Ope for an answer, brow furrowed.  
  
Ope simply motioned with his head towards the bed in the corner. As Jax stared at the bloodstains understanding dawning on his face. He walked into the room to take a closer look, running a hand through tangled dirty-blonde hair. "Those sick fucks..."  
  
"That was my sentiment precisely," Chibs intoned.  
  
"We're getting him to the ER," Ope said.  
  
"Alright..." Jax was clearly thinking hard, then walked urgently up to Ope again. "Look, bro, what if the Brotherhood has it staked out, you sure going there is smart right now?"  
  
"Do you know any doctors around here?" Clay interjected out of nowhere, stepping up to the door. "I don't. We don't know what's wrong with him so he's going, it's not up for debate." Clay sounded irritated that they were even discussing it.  
  
"Well get him inside, then we'll talk about this," Jax said severely. The black windowless van came to a stop with its back facing the rooms, a newer model with a sliding side door. Tig pulled open the rear doors and hopped inside, his pocket chain swinging over worn Levi's.  
  
Ope stepped out, angled sideways so the man's feet didn't smack the door.  
  
The van's back seats had been removed to fit everyone's extra shit, i.e. travel supplies that weren't (on the surface) illegal. Prowling between the duffel bags and coats, Tig grabbed a pile and starting to clear more space.  
  
"Sleeping bag's in the right corner," Ope said, bracing himself to step up and inside while Clay and Chibs jumped forward to hold the van doors.  
  
Chibs scanned for passerby and only saw Bobby walking back. Before he could tell Opie to hurry up, the man was stepping inside, a grunt the only sign the physical feat was any effort at all.Tig clicked on the interior light, and Chibs glimpsed the punk's face as Ope lowered him, eyes lidded and glassy.  
  
"Chibs, Clay," Jax was saying, motioning for them to follow.  
  
Clay tossed the clothes inside and closed his side of the door. Chibs followed suit, but not before he saw Juice peering at the scene in confusion from the driver's seat.  
  
"We need to think this through," Jax said seriously when they joined him beside the van. "Got a lot of loose ends we can't ignore right now."  
  
"He's going," Clay said again, clearly pissing all over his new territory.  
  
"I already know what you think, Clay, let's weigh options," Jax said sternly, giving his step-father a stare-down.  
  
"Bitch later, will ya boys?" Chibs asked tiredly, tempted to smack them both.  
  
Both, impressively, bit their tongues, Clay crossing his arms.  
  
"Does he...look, are we sure he's critical?" Jax asked. "Maybe we can get him to an ER across state lines."  
  
"That'd be over an hour, Jax, too risky," Chibs said before Clay could start.  
  
The van's side door opened and Tig stepped out, pulling it shut again.  
  
Clay sighed. "Look, just...deal with this and don't screw it up. I need to deal with _that_ problem." Clay motioned at the unmarked moving van in the corner of the parking lot, which now stored, beyond bikes, tools, and extra wheels, a fresh corpse and a square of bloody carpet. "Oh, and someone..." Clay said as an imperious afterthought, waving his finger at them. "Needs to find out who tipped those fuckers off."  
  
Jax's eye roll barely showed; just a flicker of the eyelashes really.  
  
"Off to work, boys." Clay pulled out his sunglasses, then turned and ambled off, adjusting them on his face. "Bobby!"  
  
"So what's the plan, Stan," Tig asked, snatching Chibs' half-burned cigarette. Chibs stared, scarcely believing the ass' cheekiness as Tig took a luxurious drag.  
  
"You and Ope hit the ER, but be careful," Jax said while leaning in, like he could finally talk freely. "And I want you to pull out fast if you even 'smell' the Brotherhood, you hear me? Don't take chances. Whatever happens we'll meet you at the rendezvous across the border, hole up there for the night."  
  
"I thought we were staying for the rest," Chibs said.  
  
"No, you were right," Jax said. "We need to deliver what we have, let the Brotherhood take the heat from Sanchez. This is just a really 'shit' situation to take in a stray, bro. We'll have to watch what we say in front of this guy, no state secrets. What do you think he is, anyways, a hooker?"  
  
"A hooker," Chibs repeated incredulously.  
  
"Not that it 'matters', in any case," Tig said, exaggerating the words to make his point, "but no, he's not, I found a leather vest with no patch. Think it's his."  
  
"So that means he can't be a hooker," Jax deadpanned.  
  
"Ok, fine, maybe he's a male hooker who caters to gay Nazi biker clubs with a biker fetish," Tig said sarcastically, "I hear the South loves that shit."  
  
"Don't be a smart-ass, it's not funny," Chibs said sternly.  
  
That earned him a neck roll and a stare. "I didn't 'say' it was funny."  
  
"You want my guess," Chibs said, ignoring his irritating friend, "he either pissed 'em off or they were usin' him as leverage against someone on the inside. Hardly a reason to think he's harmful - "  
  
"Are you assholes coming or what?" Ope demanded, having cracked open the sliding van door.  
  
"Tell Juice to get out, it's you and me, Opie," Tig called back, handing Chibs back his cigarette. A grin, a pat on both their shoulders and Tig was off.  
  
"Don't do anything stupid and die," Chibs called after.  
  
Tig raised a hand in mock acknowledgment before disappearing around the van, Juice stepping out.  
  
Chibs sighed, rubbing his eye socket with his palm. "I just want this disaster of a trip done with."  
  
"Here." Jax pulled a candy bar out of his pocket, starting to walk with Chibs towards the moving van. "Eat a Snickers."  
  
Chibs couldn't help guffawing, taking it despite himself. "Ya take the idea from the commercials, then?"  
  
"You get cranky when your blood sugar's low. Besides, we still have work to do, need you at your best."  
  
Chibs put the cigarette in his mouth while he unwrapped the candy. "You know I'm like a dog, right?" he mumbled, remembering a conversation he'd had the week before. "Completely loyal to whoever feeds me, swear it's hardwired into my brain."  
  
Jax put his hands in his pockets, casually clearing his throat. "Ope may have mentioned it."  
  
"...hey!"


	2. Escapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if any SOA fans thought I was being a lazy confusing bum with the timeline, you're right!
> 
> I've since decided (with invaluable and much more expert help from Juice/Chibs author [Edie_Sunshine](../../../../users/Edie_Sunshine/pseuds/Edie_Sunshine/works)), that it takes place between the first and second season, when Jax is VP and Clay is Pres.

"Be there in a few exits," Tig said, accelerating as he pulled onto the highway.  
  
"Take the back parking lot when he we get there, scope things out first," Ope replied, Tig bobbing his head in acknowledgement. Ope squeezed the man's shoulder through the blanket and smiled faintly. "See, you'll have a real bed in no time."  
  
The only response was a slow, sleepy blink. The man was awake but hardly lucid, and it had taken a combo of manhandling and coercing to get him resting sideways on the sleeping bag, his head on a coat.  
  
Ope sat back  and twisted to grab what they assumed were the man's clothes, dropping pants and a shirt in his lap. Chibs had thankfully gotten boxers on him earlier, but Ope figured he'd appreciate more coverage than underwear and a blanket when they wheeled him in.  
  
He shook out the pants, only to find them caked with mud and the knee ripped. The sleeveless flannel shirt didn't look much better, with most of the buttons missing. Wondering if his own jeans would be too big, Ope eyed the curve of the man's hip under the blanket.  
  
"Don't put him in jeans, man, he's all bruised to shit," Tig said quietly. "I got PJ bottoms in that army bag there, grab those."  
  
"The ones with the devil smiley faces?" Ope put the clothes aside and reached for his bag. "We'll pass."  
  
"Hey man, those are cool pants. My daughter gave 'em to me for Christmas, actually."  
  
"She hates you, remember?"  
  
"Pff, don't exaggerate."  
  
Ope pulled out his spare jeans, wondering how to go about it. He'd cleaned some of the blood off the man's neck and face, but this would be the first time he'd lifted the blanket. He grimaced, leaning forward to at least ask permission.  
  
To Ope's alarm he'd drifted off again, lips slightly parted and face lax. He looked pale and clammy.  
  
"Hey, wake up," Ope said, giving him a shake on the shoulder. It took several more shakes before his eyes fluttered open, Ope relieved. "Stay with us, brother, just a bit longer." Blinking, the man concentrates on his face, looking numbly confused. Ope held up the jeans. "Think you can get these on?"  
  
The man's brow furrowed, for once seeming to comprehend. However, his first effort at movement looked so damn weak and painful that Ope just pushed him back to the makeshift bed.  
  
"Relax, I got it."  
  
The man at least kept his head up as Ope pulled the blanket to his knees, starting to bunch the pant-legs over his feet. It was tempting to work fast but he stopped himself, heeding Tig's warning about the bruises. He didn't let himself dwell on the dried blood, focusing on getting the pants buttoned.  
  
"We're almost there," Tig called back. Ope glimpsed a red Emergency sign but Tig continued past, slowing to turn into a parking lot. "Probably be crowded as hell, Saturday night."  
  
The pants were baggy but they'd work. Readjusting the blanket, Ope sat back on his haunches and wondered if a shirt was worth the same effort - they'd take it off him anyways. Nevertheless, he reached in his bag and pulled out the monstrous XXL T-shirt his dad had picked up at Sturgis Motorcycle Rally a few years back. It would be easy to get on, at least.  
  
"Hey, I recognize that van," Tig said urgently. "That white one, there. It was there when the robbery happened, I'm fucking sure of it."  
  
"Shit," Ope snarled, stepping carefully over the man's limp wrist to peer between the front seats, keeping his head low. "Anyone inside?"  
  
"No. Hard to see, though, bad angle. Man, we can't leave him here."  
  
"Get us out, then, just take it nice and slow. Plate number?"  
  
"Yeah yeah, it's logged."  
  
Ope looked back to see the man's eyes were wide open, focusing on him with more alertness than he'd seen so far.  
  
"Just a delay," Ope said, reaching to readjust the blanket on his bare shoulder. "We'll get you to a doctor in an hour or so, just hold tight."  
  
"Could use more eyes here, Ope."  
  
Another shoulder squeeze and a friendly smile, and Ope stepped over the console. Excepting one rogue kneee he managed to semi-gracefully land in the passenger seat.  
  
"Jax made a bad call," Tig muttered, suddenly brooding and anxious. "We have a full hour to take care of this guy. We aren't doctors, he should've had Chibs come instead."  
  
"We can meet Chibs on the way." Ope peered in the side-view mirror, checking that his gun was loose.  
  
"We're still near a hospital, maybe we should kidnap a doc - "  
  
"They're on the move," Ope interrupted as they slowed for a light, watching the van approach from behind.  
  
"Well." Tig revved the engine, a smile growing. His silver rings glistened as he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "Then maybe bringing me along wasn't such a bad call after all. Let's lose these fuckers."  
  
"Go!" The light had turned and Tig slammed on the gas, the wheels screeching on the concrete.  
  
Tig immediately took a sharp left across traffic, knocking everything violently to the right in the process. Ope braced himself and looked back to see the punk had tried to sit up, only half-succeeding and staring at them with wide-eyed alarm.  
  
"It's fine," Ope said back, but the man's expression didn't change, and he was knocked back to the bedding when Tig took another ridiculous turn. "Lose 'em, don't 'cause a crime scene," Ope scolded Tig.  
  
"Let the adults work, will ya?"  
  
"If you're the adult here then we're screwed, tone it down."

-|-

Juice walked briskly for the motel's ramshackle main office.  
  
As he reached for the door he heard Clay's voice, and turned to see the older man between two buildings. He was talking closely with a woman in a pink Sari dress.  
  
"Too much vodka, someone got stupid with a zippo, you know how those things get," Clay was saying.  
  
"Hey Clay, we need to roll," Juice called over. The woman turned to eyeball him; she was middle-aged with a red dot on her forehead.  
  
Clay waved Juice off before giving her a disarming smile. "Sorry about that. Anyways, you understand?"  
  
"Carpet fire, yes." The woman smoothed her Sari, then glanced nervously between them. "Thank you for informing me. I must go now."  
  
"Of course, thank you for your time."  
  
Juice stepped aside so she could re-enter her office, a bell jingling as she closed the door. He heard the door lock behind her.  
  
"So you think she'll buy that?" Juice asked, stepping over so they could head for the bikes.  
  
Clay smirked. "You missed the part where I slipped her two grand."  
  
"Ah..." Juice let that sink in. "Wait, shit!" He reached for his hood, hoping to cover the dangerously distinctive tattoos lining his Mohawk. "Won't the transaction show up on the cameras?"  
  
"Relax, Intelligence Officer, you think those scumbags would've lived here if the cameras worked? Hey, wait a minute...I smell weed."  
  
Juice smiled. "I bought some outside the last gas station. Want a hit? Should be decent, haven't tried the - "  
  
"Jesus Christ, Juice, where's your brain! You think I wanna waste time bailing you out in the middle of an operation 'cause some cop thinks you smell nice? Toss it!"  
  
Appalled, Juice slapped at his pockets, trying to remember where he'd put the joint.  
  
Ahead Chibs was sitting on his motorcycle and talking on a cell-phone. With the moving van gone only the three of them remained.  
  
"Look, Opie, there's not much I can do," Chibs continued severely, shadows from the recently lit street-lamps making his facial scars more pronounced. "It's not like a bullet hole I can just stitch up, you need a real doctor."  
  
"What's up?" Clay asked Juice as they swung legs over their bikes.  
  
"The Brotherhood was at the hospital, they had to lose 'em," Juice said, putting on his helmet.  
  
"Shit," Clay muttered.  
  
"Quit downplayin' yaself, Opie boy, you can do CPR and pump a stomach well as I can, and you got the Naloxone in the med kit if you...no, I...look, just be your normal cuddly self, ya big oaf, you'll do fine."  
  
Clay snapped his fingers to get Chibs' attention. "Tell him to stay off the interstate, the local cops might be dirty."  
  
Chibs opened his mouth to speak before sighing, lowering the phone as Juice's engine sputtered on. "Sorry, he hung up on me. I'm sure he thought of it, though."

-|-

"What's Chibby say?" Tig asked as Ope climbed in the rear of the van.  
  
"We're on our own," Ope said in irritation, sliding the door shut. "Just head for the rendezvous."  
  
"Yeah, alright."  
  
Ope shielded his eyes against the bright cab light as Tig put the car into drive. Their friend was still upright, he saw; somehow during the car chase he'd propped himself against the van wall with his knees bent in the oversize jeans.  
  
He looked like hell, now that the blanket had slipped and left his torso bare, his chest moving shallowly in and out. It was also disheartening to see he lacked the simple energy to cover himself back up.  
  
As Ope crouched down the man didn't move, though eyes flicked his direction, not meeting his gaze. Ope rubbed a hand over his coarse beard, letting out a slow breath as he prepared to jump in.  
  
"Brother," he started, leaning closer, "I know this is a lot to ask right now, but I need you to focus. Look at me, brother." Blue eyes caught the light under shaggy hair, glazed and shadowed as they met his. "I need to know what they drugged you with. How much, when, anything you remember."  
  
The man just stared, almost like he'd forgotten how to speak.  
  
"Do you know what they gave you? You can just shake your head, yes or no."  
  
A brow furrowed, and after blinking at him for a moment, his answer was a slight shake of the head. Opie made an effort not to look frustrated. This was going nowhere, Chibs was an idiot for...then memories of Jax's junkie bitch of an ex ran through his mind, and Ope looked down.  
  
There they were.  
  
A short line of needle marks on the inner crook of his arm. Grimacing, Ope reached to grip the man's tanned forearm, pulling it closer to inspect. Had they roofied him this way, or was the man already a user?  
  
"Ope, I need you to navigate soon," Tig said.  
  
"Busy here, the map's on my seat if you need it."  
  
Paper rustled up front as Ope ran his thumb near the vein. No abscesses and they seemed fresh. Some of the bruises dotting the surrounding skin looked at least several days old, yellowed and faded.  
  
"What are these, several days worth?" Without thinking, Ope looked to the man for an answer.  
  
When he saw he was leaning away, averting eyes and looking pale and nervous, Ope quickly let go.  
  
"Sorry," Ope muttered, guilt crashing through him as the man pulled his arm to his chest, curling away. "Let's finish getting you dressed, man." He spun to look for the T-shirt, seeing the black fabric sitting by his bag.  
  
The short burst of a cop's siren stopped him short.  
  
"Aw, fucksticks," Tig said eloquently.  
  
"What the hell did you do?" Ope demanded, hearing gravel under the tires as they pulled onto the shoulder.  
  
"Nothing, I swear to God, I was driving slow as shit." Ope got quickly to his feet to turn off the light, dousing the back in near darkness. "This is not good, man, we can't just have him lying back there like a corpse, hide him or something!"

In the dim light Opie saw the man was struggling to sit up again, clearly aware of the threat. Knowing they had some time, Opie crouched back down and started to bunch the shirt around the collar.

"Get your arm up?" he asked, not waiting for permission to pull the shirt over the man's head. He then tried to expedite the getting of arms into armholes, using the same strategies he'd picked up dressing children and drunks.

"Hey Opie, ask if he has warrants," Tig said urgently, turning off the car but keeping the headlights on.

"Shit, forgot about that." Opie pulled the shirt past his slightly pudgy bellybutton, then lowered his head to try and regain eye contact. "You hear Tig? Any warrants?" Opie was relieved when the man shook his head. "He's clean."

"That's a plus." Tig started rifling loudly through the glove-box and Opie looked about the van, deciding the existing bed probably looked least suspicious.

"Alright," he muttered, patting his shoulder, "let's get you lying down like before, you can pretend it's a hangover."

The man actually nodded again, another heartening sign of awareness, so Ope didn't waste time reaching under his arm and around his back, bracing himself to lift.

"Here we go - " They only had a few feet to move, but the man wasn't able to help much. Ope ended up hoisting most of his weight. He winced sympathetically when he heard a noise of gruff pain, and the man's hand clutched instinctively at his vest.

"Here he comes," Tig warned, "better get your ass up here."

Lowering the man down, Ope tried to make the coat look more like a pillow and pulled the blanket up to the waist. "Keep your hands visible," Ope said to the man, moving a bag so it didn't look like they were hiding him. "And try not to look dead, alright?"

"Ope!"

Even post-haste, he barely got his seat-belt on before a knuckle rapped on Tig's window. Tig shared an unhappy look with Opie before lowering the glass, other hand resting visibly on his thigh. It wasn't close to pitch dark yet, but they both had to squint against the powerful flashlight the cop shone in their eyes.

"License and registration, please."

"Can do," Tig said amiably, while the flashlight flicked to the patches on their vests. While Tig blindly grabbed for the paperwork, Ope eyed the officer. One hand on his holster, he had a pasty smooth face and dark sunglasses, and filled out his Sheriff's Department uniform a bit too much.

Tig held the paperwork out, but to Ope's dismay the cop ignored it to idle towards the front of the car, giving him a better angle to shine his light in the rear.

"Is there someone else in your vehicle."

"Oh." Tig looked sheepish, like he'd forgotten. "Yeah. I wouldn't wake him, though, 'less you wanna get puked on."

As the officer stared, analyzing the situation, Ope thanked God he'd already gotten the blood off the man's face and neck. Still, he waited anxiously for the seat-belt violation, or worse.

But then the cop seemed to dismiss the issue, turning off the flashlight and reattaching it to his belt. Lip twitching, he took the paperwork from Tig. "You know why I pulled you over?"

"Um, no, actually," Tig chirped, all friendly innocence. "We're just driving through, there some law we're unaware of?"  
  
"I doubt yer unaware of this one." A clipboard and pencil had appeared in the Officer's hand from nowhere. Ope was surprised he hadn't returned to the squad car to process the info; maybe Georgia was different. "You happened to be goin', according to my radar, Mr...Trager, at least five miles over the speed limit."  
  
"Five miles over the..." Tig looked between the Officer and Opie in a show of confusion. "I mean, with all due respect...five? Really?"  
  
The Officer lowered his sunglasses, peering over the top. "I don't like cheeky, so watch yourself. Now. I'm lettin' you off with two verbal warnings. First is to watch your speed, you'll find that simple enough. Second."  
  
He put the pencil in his pocket, holding the paperwork aside to lean in. He chewed on gum like cud.  
  
"I'm wagerin' you gentlemen ain't the only Califor-ai-ay license plates passin' through this evening, and I got a message for y'all. You come this way again, you best take the long route. Far, far away from my county lines, or we'll find reasons ta give all a' y'all worse than warnings. Are we understood."  
  
"Yes, officer."  
  
The Officer looked between them, his expression making it clear he didn't believe either of them as he chewed on his gum. "I'm glad to hear that." He handed Tig's paperwork back. "You can move out. And have a pleasant evening, gentlemen. Just do it off my land."  
  
Tig gave him a charming grin, all teeth and sarcasm. After eying them for another moment, the Officer moved on, placidly walking back to his vehicle.  
  
Tig wasted no time turning the van on, the friendly face replaced by a clear foul mood instantly.  
  
"Get us out of here," Ope said, peering at the cop's still flashing lights in the side-mirror.  
  
"Agree with you there." Tig hit the blinker, carefully pulling onto the darkening road. "Looks like we're taking the long way, no way in hell I'm risking the interstate after all this bullshit. Cops AND Nazis out for us? Well, shit, sign me up for Indiana Jones 5 - "  
  
Opie ignored his nervous babble, climbing into the back to check on their friend. Seemed like he'd be stuck with the man's life in his hands for longer than he'd thought.


	3. Reunions

The next hour turned repetitive.  
  
To combat the silence Tig searched for a radio station not blaring saccharine country bullshit, only to give up and settle on some generic 70s rock CD.  
  
Ope had settled next to his charge, making a recliner of luggage and letting his legs sprawl out. Every few minutes he put his finger to the man's wrist to check pulse, also asking questions or shaking a shoulder to keep him awake. He was lucky to get a nod or head shake in response; words seemed too much.  
  
Tig eventually pulled over for a piss break, parking on the left of a remote two-lane highway.  
  
Ope finished zipping his fly, turning to climb the small hill back to the van.  
  
Tig was staring at a map, standing in the light of his open door. "I thought the South was supposed to be hot," Tig complained over the music, "it's cold as a witch's tit out here."  
  
"How much longer till the rendezvous?"  
  
"Hour maybe? There's an old highway flush with the interstate about ten miles ahead, should speed things up."  
  
Ope walked around the van, towards the side where bags weren't propped against the door. As he slid it open and squinted against the light, he frowned.  
  
There was no-one inside.  
  
"Motherfucker - " He stepped back onto the road, looking back and forth in alarm. "TIG."  
  
Nothing but asphalt and wilderness.  
  
"What the -" Tig said inside, the music turning off. "I thought he was barely conscious, how the hell did he get out of the van?"  
  
"Guess he wasn't as out of it as we thought," Ope replied, feeling betrayed.  
  
The door slammed and Tig walked to his side, shining a flashlight where the headlights didn't reach. "Think he's headed for that housing development we passed?"  
  
"Who fucking knows." Ope accepted a flashlight, clicking it on and spinning while he debated their next move. "He can't get far, you go that way on foot and I'll go this way - "  
  
"Wait, think I saw something," Tig said urgently, shining his flashlight down the road.

"Lock the car," Ope said, and before Tig could finish saying "on it" Opie was running where Tig had pointed.  
  
When he reached the spot, a good fifty feet across the road, he found a drainage ditch of sorts, wide, shallow, and filled with gravel and weeds. He shone his flashlight up and down but saw nothing. He froze the beam when he saw shadows in the shape of footprints. It looked like someone had lost their balance getting down the small hill. Opie was somewhat relieved to see the man at least had shoes on. Must've grabbed the leather ones they'd found in the motel.  
  
He heard a car approaching in the distance, and quickly started to follow down the hill, failing to mask the noise of his feet sliding on gravel. Slipping close to the bushes and turning off his flashlight, he was pleased the car didn't slow as it passed their now dark van.  
  
He saw Tig running his way as a shadow, and turned on his light again. The footsteps veered into the bushes, so Ope pulled a branch aside and peered into the gloom.  
  
"He in there?" Tig asked, gravel tumbling as he came down the hill.  
  
"Think so." Opie slipped into the woods, trusting their quarry wasn't homicidal and into ambushes. Tig followed, twigs cracking loudly under their feet. They'd have a helluva time sneaking up on him. There was the sound of another car approaching, but Opie ignored it, still looking through the leaves.  
  
"That car's slowing down, man," Tig said, staring at the headlights. "Wait...I think he's stopping for somebody!"  
  
As Opie spun to confirm Tig was right, he saw Tig already running, so he started crashing through the woods after him. Twigs and branches scratched at his face and caught in his beard, and they finally burst onto the gravel. When a car door slammed and the car picked up speed, Opie bit back a curse, filled with dread that they were too late.  
  
"Fucker!" he heard a rough voice yell, headlights receding.  
  
Their friend was standing on the roadside, broad-shouldered in the moonlight and quite obviously giving the car the bird.  
  
"That was close," Tig panted under his breath, starting to walk up the hill.  
  
From the way the man's head angled, it was obvious he saw them. He turned away, starting to walk steadily away from them and van, like they weren't even there. Tig sighed, and they started to walk after. The man hardly set a fast pace, and Opie made sure he and Tig followed a good twenty feet behind, not crowding him.  
  
"Friend!" he finally called out, when Tig gave him a look of impatience. "Come talk with us, we're good people."  
  
The man didn't even turn around, though he did wrap his arms around his chest as he walked, head down. Opie couldn't blame him; the oversize T-shirt hardly kept the heat in.  
  
"Let's just go talk with him," Tig muttered under his breath, but Opie shook his head.  
  
"Nothing aggressive, we rush things we'll lose his trust."  
  
"Oh come on, we never had it in the first place!"  
  
Ope hissed to shut Tig up, frowning as he saw the man stumble. His balance seemed compromised, and he was failing utterly at walking in a straight line. Opie shared a glance with Tig, and by the time he looked back the man was entirely stopped. Opie put his hand to Tig's shoulder, both of them stopping as well.  
  
"You alright, brother?" he called over, after the man stayed still.  
  
The man turned in the moonlight to glare balefully, as if telling Ope off for even asking. Then he stubbornly started walking again. Slower this time.

For awhile the only noise in the dark was their own footsteps, along with the occasional pebble sent clattering ahead by their boots. Ope was surprised the crickets weren't louder, if that's what they called them here. The South always seemed that way in movies.  
  
The man kept shuffling along, and when he stopped again he leaned his hands on his knees, looking hard-pressed not to pass out.  
  
Tig started to approach.  
  
"Tig," Ope warned, following behind.  
  
As they got closer the man tensed, turning to glare. "Stay the fuck away from me," he rasped, both of stopping instantly at the menace in his voice.

"Fine, fine," Tig said, putting his hands in the air. "Whatever."

The man braced his hand on his knee again, the other arm wrapped around his stomach. Ope could see him shivering violently.

"Just a bit longer to the hospital and you can be rid of us, you know," Opie said, crossing his arms as he waited.  
  
There was a creak of leather as Tig reached in his vest pocket, where he kept his cigarettes. The man tensed at the movement, and Tig froze, staring back.  
  
It gave Ope an idea.  
  
"I can fix this," Ope said. He methodically untied the knife sheath on his belt, and then extended it with the handle out. He only got a blank stare in response, so he tossed it, a small cloud of dust poofing up where it clattered at the man's feet.  
  
He didn't take it.  
  
"Here, take my gun too," Ope said. "I can get others, I don't need it."  
  
He pulled it from its holster, and after checking the safety, crouched down and placed it on the cement. A good push and it slid the few paces to the man's feet. Ope stayed crouched, not wanting to tower over him, and the man met his gaze directly, as if gauging something, before going to one knee to reach for the knife. Barely glancing at it, he stuffed it in his pocket so the hilt stuck out, and then reached for the gun.  
  
Opie was impressed at how nimbly his fingers checked the safety, but frowned when he pulled out the clip. Putting the gun back on the ground, he wiped the clip on his T-shirt, the exact thing Opie did to clean off fingerprints.  
  
"It's clean, no serial codes," Ope said, but the man simply braced himself and stood. The gun he left on the concrete, while the clip was tossed into a large, thorny-looking bush in the ditch.  
  
Then without further ado, he started walking again.  
  
"Oh come on, this is stupid, you'll freeze to death," Tig said as they started to follow, Opie scooping his gun up. "What'd we do to piss you off, huh?"  
  
"You didn't _do_ nothin', I just don't know you people!"  
  
"Brother, Tig's right -"  
  
"Quit calling me that, will ya?" As the man slowed, putting his palm to his forehead, Opie could see the pain on his face.  
  
"Fine then, mystery person," Opie continued, crossing his arms again. "Look, you have a lot of chemicals in your system right now, it's not safe. We're trying to take you to a doctor."  
  
 "I ain't going to a hospital. I'll walk myself out, if y'all try, so you best give up."  
  
"Family doctor, then," Opie said. "You got family around here, someone who can come get you?"  
  
The man gave him a squinting stare, like he was struggling to focus. "Yeah. Yeah, I got...got family. And I can get there by walking, so fuck off."

"He don't - " Tig cut himself off in frustration, rolling expressive eyes sky high as the man started trying to walk again. "Who then, man? Who's your family." The man just paused again, breathing hoarsely, clearly in a bad state. "He's lyin' out of his ass."  
  
"I can't let you leave with my dad's shirt," Ope said in a mock serious voice, and the mystery man reeled to stare hard, as if trying to figure out how the hell that made sense.  
  
Another staggered pace back, and he'd apparently come to the decision that Ope was serious, starting to pull the shirt up his torso.  
  
"No, no it was a joke, keep the shirt," Ope said quickly, and the man stared at him again, lowering it.  
  
"Christ, this guy's noodle is cooked, let's just get him home," Tig muttered.  
  
"I starting to think you're right," Ope said back, though he felt almost queazy at the idea of forcing him.  
  
Fortunately it worked out differently, as it seemed the man had reached his limit.  
  
He didn't so much as fall to the ground as float, his legs sinking until he'd ended up on his knees and one hand. From there he slumped to a sitting position, leaning on his hip and holding himself upright with shaking arms.  
  
"I'm coming over," Opie called, frowning at how the man didn't argue back. He crouched cautiously in front of him, bending his head to try and make eye contact.  
  
There was a rustling and he realized Tig had taken his leather jacket off, bending to drape it over the man's shoulders. Opie reached forward to help, tugging it so it didn't fall off.  
  
"I'll get the car, hold tight," Tig said, before standing and taking off, pulling keys from his pocket as he jogged.  
  
Ope took the liberty of scooting closer, then helping as the man moved to sit upright again, letting him lean his weight on Ope's shoulder and arm.  
  
"Dizzy?" he asked, the man's head moving up and down in a nod. When Ope dared bring his arm around his back he got no resistance. At the sight of headlights at the end of the road, he shook him. "Car comin'." In response the man grimaced, lifting his head to squint at the light. "Ready to stand?" When Opie felt fingers grip his vest he took that as a yes. Reaching his arm under the man's armpit, he braced them both and lifted.  
  
Once on their feet the man let go of his vest, instead gripping the leather jacket draped over his shoulders and wrapping an arm tightly around his stomach, like it hurt. The pained concentration made it pretty clear to Opie that letting go was a bad idea, so he kept his arm at his back.  
  
"Let's get off the road," he said as the car neared, nudging them onto the shoulder.  
  
Opie angled them such that their faces and patches would be partly obscured to the car, pulling him closer. He half-expected another show of normalcy as the car passed, but the man stayed slumped against him, forehead bumping his shoulder.  
  
"You got something I can call you?" Ope asked, eying the passing car.  
  
"...Daryl," the man mumbled, somewhere along his collar-bone.  
  
"Nice to meet you, Daryl. I'm Opie." Daryl heard a buzzing sound and Opie murmured "crap" above him, shifting. "Sorry, have to check this." He gave Daryl a quick squeeze, not hard to hurt his sore ribs, thankfully. A cellphone beeped. "Hey sweetie, is this an emergency?"  
  
The voice on the other side was very high pitched.  
  
Daryl knew he should be fighting, at least arguing over the fact that he was letting himself be held by a massive bearded stranger. But maybe it was the knife in his pocket, or the neutralized gun, or that he couldn't stop shaking, but it was hard to pull away from the warmth.  
  
And it was definitely better than crying in a ball on the concrete, which was really the only other thing he felt capable of at the moment.  
  
"Janae's babysitting? Do NOT try it yourself, call your Grandpa Piney." The tinny voice responded urgently. "Well he's probably testing an engine, try again. Look, hon, I'm helping somebody right now, I gotta run. I'll call you in the morning."  
  
Opie laughed in response to a joke on the other side, and it was like a rumble somewhere deep in his chest. His vest, hard-edged with the gun underneath, smelled a lot like Daryl's did, except less like sun and rain and more like motor oil. Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if it would stop the spinning. It just made it worse.  
  
"Love you too, Princess. Bye." A beep, and the call ended. "Sorry about that."  
  
After putting his cellphone back, Opie snaked a second arm around Daryl's back, watching as Tig reversed towards them at a speed most people would call unnervingly fast. It stopped ten feet away, and Tig hopped out with the engine on.  
  
"Ready?" Ope asked. A nod, and a stumbled step, and Ope kept his arms around him as they walked the short distance. Tig bounced ahead of them, pulling open the twin back doors so Daryl could sit on the edge of the van. Opie, watching carefully in case he started to black out, sat on the bumper next to him.  
  
Daryl took a deep shaky breath, leaning against the door with his shoulder. After a minute he blinked a few times, like he was readjusting to the world, and looked up at Tig. "Either a y'all got a cigarette?"  
  
"Yeah man." Tig's nimble fingers had the cig and lighter out in four seconds flat.

Opie tried not to stare at how shaky Daryl's hands were as he lit the thing. Daryl finally lifted it to his lips, cheeks going hollow as he took a long drag, brow furrowed in concentration. As he held in it, smoke trickling out his nose, Opie wondered how long it'd been since they'd let him smoke.  
  
Daryl rubbed his eye socket with the back of his hand, and then gave Tig a glance, seeming to notice he wasn't in a jacket. He moved to take it off, but Tig shook his head.  
  
"Keep it for now, I'll check the maps. Here." Tig took out the pack of cigarettes, dropping the whole thing on Daryl's lap. With a quick smile he ducked out behind the door.  
  
Opie didn't push Daryl to speak as Tig fidgeted up front, and finally the man glanced over, eyes half-lidded and red.  
  
"You got kids?" Daryl asked, sounding sleepy.  
  
"Yep," Ope said back. "Boy and a girl. Got real lucky with 'em."  
  
"They're demon children," Tig interrupted, the radio hissing.  
  
"Better watch your tongue," Ope called back.  
  
"Ah fuck you, I've had to babysit the little bastards."  
  
Ope shook his head, and gave Daryl a look. "His kids are the bastards, trust me."  
  
"He means angels," Tig called back, the radio changing again.  
  
Opie mouthed 'whores' as clearly as he could. He swore he got a tiny smile in response, as Daryl took another drag. Looking back after the fact, Ope wasn't exactly sure what make it clear. But something about that moment marked when Daryl started to trust him. Maybe it was the way his body relaxed, or how his expression because less strained, more expressive in how it showed pain, less repressed.  
  
"You got kids?" Ope asked, stretching one knee so it popped loudly. "You got kids?"  
  
"Nah." As his eyes drifted in thought, Daryl chortled. "None that I know 'bout, anyways." Ope watched as Daryl flicked the first butt onto the road, reaching for a second with fumbling fingers. "You don't think it's dangerous?" Daryl slurred, putting it to his lips.  
  
"What is?"  
  
"Doin' what you do with kids," Daryl mumbled, looking vaguely apologetic for bringing it up.  
  
Ope shrugged. "Yeah, well. Wife always wants me to stop." He paused, thinking about recent heated arguments, before inhaling slowly, filling his lungs with cold air. "I probably should've. Should've a long time ago. It's...well, a couple months back she was attacked," Ope confided softly, so Tig couldn't hear. "They haven't found who did it, but she got shot driving home. She lived, that's all that matters, but she hasn't been able to work since. Seizures, sometimes. But this job. Working with the club. Keeps the money coming in."  
  
Opie looked at his rings in the moonlight, the ones representing SAMCRO. More than once he'd thought of flushing them down the toilet the past year. Considered flushing a part of himself.  
  
"'m sorry to hear that."  
  
Surprised, he glanced over at the soft, contrite words. Daryl was looking at him with a sympathetic sadness, and for some reason beyond Opie's own understanding, he huffed a laugh, before starting to guffaw in earnest.  
  
"What." Daryl looked confused, a little distressed, and Ope put a hand to his mouth to try and stop the laughter.  
  
"Nothing, it's just..." he realized his eyes were actually prickling. "Jesus, you're the one all fucked over, and here you're going out of your way to make me feel better. Just...backwards."  
  
Daryl seemed at a loss, so Opie clapped his hands on his own knees, getting to his feet.  
  
"Let's get out of here, brother."  
  
This time Daryl didn't seem upset by the slip of words, and after a weary nod, let Opie help him inside.

-|-

Trashy redneck reality television. That's what Chibs had settled on after clicking through every HBO channel he could find, all while sitting on the edge of a Super 8 bed, staring numbly. He'd skipped over his usual cheesy splatter flicks, trying actively not to think about gore and death. Body disposal was one part of his chosen life that Chibs knew he'd never get used to. Probably for the best.  
  
He muted the TV at the sound of a new engine outside.  
  
"What's up?" Juice asked, his fingers not slowing as he typed on a laptop in the corner.  
  
"Think that's the van." Dropping the remote on the bed, Chibs walked to the door and peered outside. Sure enough, the van was parking about five spots down, Bobby meandering over as the engine turned off.  
  
Chibs stepped outside and heard the laptop click shut behind him, Juice probably standing to follow.  
  
The van's sliding door opened and Opie's tall frame stepped out, pulling it mostly shut behind him. Inside the van Chibs glimpsed movement, and it wasn't Tig.  
  
Instantly incensed, he upped his speed. "Opie boy," he called, interrupting the start of Ope's conversation with Bobby. "The hospital's five exits back," he said bluntly, not stopping until he was just a foot from Opie's face.  
  
Opie's expression darkened as he looked at Bobby. "Mind letting us talk?"  
  
"No problem. C'mon Juicy, fix my Wifi for me."  
  
Opie grabbed Chibs' arm and led him further from the van. "He won't go."  
  
"Why the bloody hell not?"  
  
"Honestly? I have no idea, he only started saying no when he was more awake."  
  
"You told him we'd foot the bill, right?"  
  
"Yeah, of course."  
  
"Well then clearly ya didn't try convincing hard enough," Chibs said, starting to step around him.  
  
" _No_ , Chibs, drop it," Opie hissed, grabbing Chibs by the vest with surprising vehemence. "Keep your mouth shut, you push him he might bolt. Christ, we already had to chase him into the woods once, and we got lucky that time!"  
  
Chibs' ensuing question, something along the lines of 'wait, what?' was cut short when the door slid further open and Tig stepped out, his attention inside the van. A bent knee appeared, the victim starting to climb out after. Moving gingerly, he stood on his own power, leaning somewhat against the van for balance. Tig hovered like he expected him to collapse.  
  
"Chibs, this is Daryl," Ope said, his voice friendly and casual as he stepped closer.  
  
Smiling instantly, Chibs hoped the scar on his face didn't intimidate. "Glad to see you awake, brother."  
  
When Daryl met his gaze, bobbing his head in greeting, Chibs swore he saw the glint of recognition. The eye-contact was brief, however, as Daryl glanced nervously to one side. When Chibs followed his line of sight he saw two Nomads tinkering on a bike nearby, both staring blatantly.  
  
"This way," Chibs said quickly, stepping such that he blocked the Nomads' view, beckoning towards his room. Daryl moved slowly, Ope ushering him along like a bodyguard. Tig shut the van door before following, giving the nomads a sour look.


	4. Coffee

Ope woke with a start at the sound of a knock on the door; or, more specifically, the knock Jax used when they were kids. Rubbing his eyes, he felt a jolt of alarm and quickly glanced at Daryl's back, relieved to see the man shift under the covers. Despite his self-tasked job of staying up all night to keep an eye on him, Opie'd fallen asleep on top of the comforter.

Chibs, hidden under blankets on the other bed, groaned dramatically. "Opie. Get it."  
  
Opie grumbled and rolled off the bed, his boots hitting the carpet; he'd never bothered getting undressed. The TV, soundless, was the only light in the room besides a lamp in the corner and sunlight filtering through cracks in the drapes.  
  
Six fucking am.  
  
Cursing both Jax's and Clay's early bird instincts, Ope stood, stretched, and went to peer through the spyhole. It was indeed Jax, though he didn't have his 'leader' face on yet, trying awkwardly to balance a bag of fast food and coffee-holder. His hair was still wet from a shower and tucked behind a ear, and he was wearing his usual plaid blue flannel.  
  
"Just Jax," Opie mumbled to the other inhabitants, before undoing the chain and locks. He only cracked it open, making the point others were still sleeping inside. "Now that's the way to greet a man," he said, his mouth already watering at the smell of coffee.  
  
Jax smiled, extending the food with all the chipper morning energy Opie had always been jealous of. "Morning Ope."  
  
"Which one's mine?" Opie asked of the coffee, propping the door with his foot to take the food.  
  
"All black, take any." Opie noticed Jax trying to casually peer in the room after him. Ope left the door cracked, and trying not to make a racket, put it all on a coffee table. There was a rustling and he glimpsed Chibs squinting sleepily at the sight of food, hair messy and in a wife beater.  
  
Grabbing two coffees, Opie joined Jax in the brisk air, shutting the door and handing him his coffee. The sun was still in the process of breaking over the treeline, the motel signage lit even this early in the morning.  
  
"So how's it been in there?" Jax asked, crossing his leg and leaning against a wall. The early highway noise was just a low hum.  
  
"It's been alright. He sleeps, we watch TV. I kicked Chibs' ass at Grand Theft Auto." He shrugged, trying to give the impression he couldn't think of much else.  
  
Jax looked unbelieving. "That's it?"  
  
"What do you mean, that's it?"  
  
"I mean, he's doing alright? Shit, man, I thought going through something like that would fuck a man up."

"Vulture."  
  
"What? I can't ask?"  
  
"Fine," Ope conceded, knowing he'd at least be speaking in confidence. "Daryl's fucked. Pretty sure he's going through withdrawal, and add in...I think they're panic attacks, he kinda...curls up under the blanket. Goes rigid."  
  
"Crying?"  
  
"Yeah, sobbing for his mom." Jax was all attention, and Ope gave him another glare. "No, he's not. I don't know, when he turns his back on me I leave him alone, not my damn business. He's not loud about it, if you're asking." He paused to take a sip of coffee. "Curiosity satisfied?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, and my mouth is sealed," Jax said, looking off at the sun again. "Oh! Bobby got that call set up, if he still wants to talk to his brother. First chance is tonight, around 8."  
  
"I'll let him know. Plan for the day?"  
  
"I asked Happy to take all the Nomads on a bogus mission, so it's just Charming and Tacoma now. There's a new drop location now, no chance of a leak, no way any of us would be in with these small-town psychos. The Brotherhood'll pay for what they did, you know. If you wanna tell Daryl that, we'll back him, brother."  
  
"Don't tell him, that, bro, he's got enough shit in his head right now already, does need revenge on top of it."  
  
"So what's the plan with him, anyways?"  
  
"You're asking me?"  
  
"You'd ask me?"  
  
"Well...on this, no, guess I wouldn't. Well...I do have ideas. I still haven't convinced him yet, but hear me out."

-|-

Chibs sat on the bed in front of Daryl, the other man shifting and squinting bleary eyes at him.  
  
"Got sugar, if you don't like it black," he said, holding up the coffee in plain sight.  
  
"Black's fine," Daryl ground, voice still scratchy from sleep. He sat up slowly, propping himself gingerly against the bed-stand to accept the coffee. He looked like hell warmed over, deep shadows under his eyes, bruises dotting enough skin to make recent troubles obvious.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This story is discontinued, but there is a rough work draft released into the Creative Commons at "[Unfinished Tales: Chapter 3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/896773/chapters/1732498)."


End file.
